Page 1 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Lysithea

T he moonlight shifts through my bedroom windows as I complete my third set of vocal exercises, each note carefully controlled to avoid adding to the scorch marks that already decorate my walls like abstract burn patterns.

My voice hangs in the air for a moment before dissipating, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the soft hum of protective wards responding to my power.

I catch my reflection in the mirror as I reach for my water glass—white-blonde hair cascading over my shoulders like spilt starlight, violet eyes still glowing faintly from the magical exertion.

In a realm with eternal darkness, I try to blend into the shadows, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. Everything about me sets me apart.

The bioluminescent orchids on my windowsill shimmer brighter as I approach, their petals unfurling in response to my magical signature.

I’ve learned not to keep normal plants. They wither within days of exposure to whatever I am.

These shadow-fed specimens thrive on the ambient darkness that seems to follow me everywhere, their roots drinking from the crystalline formations that store starlight along the window frame.

“Good morning, lovelies,” I murmur, brushing my fingertips against their luminous petals. The touch of my skin makes them glow so brightly that the protective wards around my windows flicker in response, recognising a potential breach in the academy’s carefully maintained magical containment.

DarkHallow Academy’s grounds sprawl out across the convergence of ancient ley lines.

The main towers stretch toward the star-drunk sky, their black stone surfaces absorbing the silver moonlight that bathes everything in ethereal luminescence.

Gargoyles perch along the rooflines, decorative but also functional.

They’re living stone guardians that track movement across the grounds with eyes that glow like embers.

The architecture defies conventional understanding.

Corridors that appear straight from one angle curve impossibly when viewed from another.

Doorways lead to different destinations depending on the walker’s intent or magical signature.

The stones seem alive, responding to the emotions and power levels of those who pass near them.

I turn away from the window and move to my desk, where textbooks on Advanced Vocal Magic sit beside my private research.

Volumes on extinct magical bloodlines that I’ve painstakingly gathered from the restricted sections of the library are piled up, a faint shimmer surrounding them.

The binding on A Complete History of Nox Sirens bears scorch marks from my fingers, the ancient leather crackling whenever I touch it.

I flip open to a familiar passage, one I’ve memorised but still return to like a wound I can’t stop probing:

“The last confirmed Nox Siren died in 1687 during a failed binding ritual. The power unleashed by her death scream created a dimensional rift that consumed everything within three miles before it could be sealed. No others of her bloodline have been recorded since.”

Except they are wrong.

I exist, walking proof that the bloodline survived, even if I’m the only one left. Sometimes I wonder if that’s a blessing or a curse. Scratch that. It’s a curse. My whole life is one big curse.

My shadows ripple across the walls as I read, moving independently of any light source.

They’ve grown more responsive over the past few months, more aware.

Sometimes I catch them reaching toward things that interest them or recoiling from perceived threats before I’ve even noticed the danger myself.

The clock beside my bed chimes softly, indicating the shift from deep night to the lighter darkness that signifies the morning hours.

It’s time to join the other students for breakfast, though the prospect fills me with the familiar dread that accompanies all social interactions at DarkHallow Academy.

I close the book and dress quickly in a simple black dress.

It’s practical, unremarkable, and dark enough to hide bloodstains should my morning take an unfortunate turn.

The fabric is woven with protective threads that absorb minor magical attacks, a necessity for someone whose mere presence can trigger defensive responses from other students.

The ground-floor hallway outside my bedroom stretches in both directions, with only two more doors, identical to mine, except for the small plaques bearing the numbers.

The walls breathe, the black stone expanding and contracting almost imperceptibly in rhythm with some unseen beat.

Floating candles provide pools of flickering light, but they dim as I pass, as if my presence draws the warmth from their flames.

Most bedroom doors are sealed with personal protective wards.

It’s not surprising in this place where monsters are the order du jour .

I am one of those. Some wards are visible as shimmering barriers, others are detectable only by the way they make the air taste of copper and electricity.

The academy encourages students to protect themselves.

In a place where accidental death is a statistical probability rather than a remote possibility, paranoia is a survival skill.

I’ve barely taken three steps when a first-year student rounds the corner ahead of me, her arms full of books.

She’s small and nervous, with the kind of energy that screams banshee.

My natural rival, or so the tales go. Who actually knows?

I haven’t met anyone who was around long enough to confirm or deny that.

At least anyone I could ask. I doubt Professor Blackgrove, our illustrious and quite frankly terrifying headmaster, would sit down to have a chat with me about who the fuck I really am.

She looks up as she approaches, and I see the exact moment recognition hits her features. Her eyes widen, and she stumbles slightly, one of her books tumbling to the floor.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, trying to stifle her defensive shriek as she bends to retrieve it.

I step aside to give her room, but she straightens too quickly and nearly collides with me. The sudden proximity—close enough that I can smell the fear-sweat on her skin—triggers an involuntary response.

I hiss, the sound carrying just enough of my Nox Siren heritage to be dangerous.

Blood immediately trickles from her ears.

“Shit,” I breathe, backing away as she drops her remaining books and presses her hands to her head.

“I’m fine,” she gasps, though the blood now staining her fingers suggests otherwise. “I’m fine, really. It was my fault. I should have watched where I was going.”

She gathers her books with shaking hands and flees down the corridor, leaving droplets of blood on the stone floor that the academy’s cleaning enchantments quickly absorb. Within seconds, there’s no evidence of the incident except the lingering scent of copper and the girl’s fading terror.

This is why I prefer to be alone.

The main staircase ascends into the academy’s heart through a spiralling atrium that showcases the building’s impossible architecture. Floating bridges span the open space at irregular intervals, connecting towers that shouldn’t be able to support their own weight.

The walls are lined with moving portraits that depict the academy’s history.

Scenes of ancient rituals, battles between supernatural forces, and the founding of the school itself.

Sometimes the figures in the paintings turn to watch passing students, their painted eyes tracking movement with unsettling awareness.

As I ascend, the familiar sounds of morning activity grow louder.

Voices echo from the dining hall, punctuated by the occasional sharp crack of an intentional magical incident.

The scent of breakfast foods mingles with the ever-present aroma of old stone, ancient magic, arrogance and blood. So much blood.

The dining hall occupies a vast space beneath a vaulted ceiling that disappears into shadow above.

Long tables stretch across the floor, and the students tend to cluster by species and social hierarchy.

The vampire courts prefer the alcoves along the far wall, where they can brood in appropriately dramatic lighting.

Demon-blooded students hold court near the massive fireplace, their heritage allowing them to bask in the heat that would be uncomfortable for others.

Shadow fae hover in the darker corners where the floating candles can’t quite reach.

And then there are students like me.

The dangerous ones, the unique specimens, the true monsters of this academy. We tend to sit alone.

I collect my breakfast from the serving area, where the kitchen staff avoid eye contact. I don’t blame them. Last month, a kitchen worker brushed against my hand while passing me a plate of fried eggs. Apparently, the brief contact left her with nightmares for a week.

With my tray in hand, I turn toward my usual table in the far corner, away from the main flow of student traffic. But as I scan the room, something makes my skin prickle.

Three figures sit at a table directly in the centre of the dining hall, positioned where they can observe the entire room. They’re not eating, not talking, not doing anything except watching.

Watching me .

I recognise them immediately, though I’ve never spoken to any of them directly.

They run in different circles, wield different types of power, come from different social strata within the academy’s complex hierarchy.

They are the outliers who shun social norms. The only thing they have in common is their reputation for danger.

And their sudden, focused attention on me.

My pulse quickens when I notice they’re not casually observing. They’re studying me with the intensity of predators evaluating prey. The middle figure leans forward slightly, and even from across the room, I can see the star-flecked silver of his eyes tracking my every movement.

My magic responds to my spike of unease, darkening and writhing like a living thing around my feet. Several nearby students notice and scramble away, recognising the signs of unstable Nox Siren magic.

I force myself to walk calmly to my usual table in the corner, settling into my chair, deliberately ignoring them. But their stares press against me like hot brands, marking me from across the room, letting me know that fading into oblivion this year isn’t an option. Not anymore.